And that's why I haven't been online as much lately

I went to the doctor to get an update on my sinusitis, and found out that not only do I still have that, but I also now have bronchitis. One more itis and I'll have what's known in hockey as a "hat sick".

 (The worst part is that Emily's now sick, and I'm suspect #1.)

Getting the (written) word out

            For writers wanting to sell their work, what kind of promotion/publicity/advertising/bragging works best? Good question.

            I dunno.

            It’s hard to get concrete evidence of anything working, but here’s something that I think counts. In the last few months I didn’t do much promotion, due to various personal issues, although of course I did keep writing. Storm Chaser, which came out in June, 2011, sold no books online in the last quarter. None. Nada. Zero. Under the Roman numbering system, I’d have vanished.

            A couple of weeks ago, Storm Chaser was featured on The Fussy Librarian (www.thefussylibrarian.com), which gives a daily list of books in various genres. (You’ll have to check on the requirements for getting on the list; I believe the criteria has changed.)

            So far in January I’ve made three sales of Storm Chaser, a book that’s two and a half years old. That would be a three hundred percent increase over the month before, if I’d sold one the month before. So far as I know, the only difference is getting the book listed on one website.

            So there you go. Getting the word out there works; you just rarely know when, or what, or often how. Nobody said it was easy.

Fifty Authors from Fifty States: Alaska- Home of Sean E. Thomas On and Off Since 19...

Fifty Authors from Fifty States: Alaska- Home of Sean E. Thomas On and Off Since 19...: I have lived in live in Eagle River a small suburb of Anchorage since 1980 (and from 1960 to 1970). From either Eagle River or Anchorage, on...

2014, The Year Of -- Mark. Well, why not?

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            I’ve been thinking about how the New Year should go. We all tend to think of that this time of year, don’t we? We all resolve to be healthier, thinner, better educated, more understanding … and we all hope some scientist will come up with a pill to do that without any actual effort.

            A certain amount of laziness is human nature. It dates back to the caveman days, when we had to sit around and conserve energy during lean times. If you missed out on the mammoth hunt there was no government assistance; you went hungry.

            As a result, the caveman got used to being inactive when not hunting, which is why he got so upset when the cavewoman wanted him to help decorate the cave. “Ah, can’t we just hire Ugg to do the drawings?” He would protest.

            “Oh, sure – Ugg is always eager to decorate everyone else’s cave, but not his own. It’s a hole. Well, I guess if I wait for you we just can’t have a nice cave, can we?”

            Where was I? Oh, yes – I originally was going to resolve to stop going off on tangents, but I got busy with other things and forgot. Instead, I propose to make this year … wait for it:

            The Year of Me.

            I’m not talking the generic, general, all six billion of us me. Here in America, it’s been a whole generation of me. Or at least it seems that way; it’s mostly just that the people who scream “Me, me!” get louder every year, while the young people we don’t hear from are busy working to improve themselves and help others. You know – the non-me people.

            I’ve always felt a little guilty whenever something seems to be just handed to me. I’m not saying I’d turn it down, mind you. But this year, 2014, is going to be the year things come my way, the big year, the year all my previous work pays off.

            Okay, probably not.

            Here’s the thing: I’m not a numerologist. I don’t believe in the power of numbers or in astrology or any superstition, knock on wood. Although it is true that during bowling I try to influence the path of the ball by body motion and the power of thoughts.

            Still, the number 14 holds special meaning to me. I was born on the 14^th, joined the volunteer fire department on the 14^th, and … well, that’s about it. I also got married on the 14^th, but that was my first marriage, so I can’t exactly use the term “lucky number”.

            In other words, it’s a not-big deal that I tend to treat as a big deal. I remember back when I turned 14 years old, thinking that was going to be my big year: I’d get the girl (any girl), my grades would improve with little effort on my part, home life would get easier, all bullies would vanish from my life, and someone would recognize the burgeoning genius of my writing.

            Didn’t happen.

            But like all pessimists who are secretly optimists, I hold onto any small thing that might indicate good times to come. So this year will be 2014, the year of Mark. It will hold a dozen or so fourteens over the months, and a whole month of 7, which is of course half of 14.

            I have decided that this means I’ll have a big year on the publishing front. Sure, I could have predicted the normal things, like losing weight, getting healthier, trimming my home’s bushes for once – but we all know that’s not going to happen.

            But I’ve already got a new novel coming out late next year, so the way I see it I’m on a roll. (Unless there’s a delay and it comes out in 2015 … no. No thinking that way.)

            In addition to that book I have six different fiction projects – count ‘em, six – sent out to publishers right now. All of them are pretty good, according to my mom, and the dog seemed fascinated when I read them to him. Three are short stories, which if bought will probably come out in ’14, and let’s ignore the “if bought” part. One is a novel that went to an agent, and if that agent should take me on she would start shopping it to publishers, so … yeah, we wouldn’t see that for a while. The other two are novels that went to publishers, and if they decided to buy them today, chances are good they’d come out in … 2015.

            Maybe I should do that older person birthday thing and declare 2015 to be a repeat of 2014 …

            But that’s okay, because I also have some self-published products almost ready, and those don’t go through the normal publisher delay. So expect an announcement about what will be announced sometime early in the year.

            That’s right; I just made an announcement that there will be an announcement. A pre-announcement announcement, if you will. Don’t judge me – that’s my wife’s job.

            So 2014 will be the Year of Mark (trademark pending), and the Year of Mark will be all about writing. I hope. Or maybe it will be the year I announce a lot of writing that will come out in 2015, which I will then identify as the year of the post-Mark.

            Maybe I should stick with diet and exercise.

Take it seriously

If you live anywhere near northern Indiana go home, button up, and stay put. If you can't, take emergency supplies and be prepared to get stuck somewhere. We're in for some serious nastiness, and it won't be over fast.

Do you catch my (snow) drift?

Still snowing, blowing and drifting, temp slowly going down from the mid teens -- great day to stay indoors with hot chocolate and a good book.  Sadly, I have to go to the doctor's office this afternoon to pick up an antibiotic refill. It's only four blocks, and I'm thinking walking would be easier. I'm also thinking this sinus infection will turn out to be the death of me.

Santa After Christmas

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

            Santa Claus had a ritual, one he followed every year after he finished delivering gifts for all little boys and girls. It involved whiskey.

            His main elf assistant, Evergreen Iciclepears, poured him two fingers, and started to walk away with the bottle. Santa snapped his fingers. “Keep ‘em coming, Iciclepears. I just delivered 1.6 billion presents.”

            (Evergreen Iciclepears’ real name was Charles Anders. But Mrs. Claus, who was always sound asleep when Santa got home from his big business trip, had renamed all the elves to make them sound more festive. The Elves accepted this because North Pole work paid well and had great benefits – including dental – but privately they called her Cranberry Cuddlecane.)

            Alcohol was not all of Santa’s routine, of course. After the reindeer were taken care of he went straight to his big easy chair, pulled off his boots, and stuck his aching tootsies in a tub of hot Epsom salt water.

            Then he took three ibuprofen, which he always found waiting for him on a tray full of other items, brought by Nutmeg Sugarlights and placed right by his chair. (Her real name was Josephine Hendrickson.)

The other stuff including soothing eye drops, because even with the sleigh’s windshield that screaming wind tended to dry his eyes out. Then there was a cough drop, for similar reasons, and some antacid, because in the space of twenty-four hours he’d eaten approximately 450,000,000 pieces of candy and cookies.

Once he was settled, Forest Tinselstockings came in with the anti-static brush. (His name actually was Forrest – Forrest Gump, no relation. Since that Tom Hanks movie came out he kind of liked his new name.)

You see, Santa delivers all those presents by means of a space-time wormhole tesseract, a device given to him in 1032. At the time Santa, using his magical reindeer, could easily get around and deliver gifts to all the good children. Just the same, a strange man arrived at Santa’s home in the Forest of Burzee – literally inside his home, materializing in a small blue box and calling himself The Doctor.

The Doctor informed Santa that he’d someday need some time saving devices, and gave him a Bag of Holding (which proved to be bigger on the inside) as well as the tesseract. All he asked for in return was for Santa to make him a power tool he could use to open doors and make routine physics calculations with, but that would still fit in his pocket. The Doctor took his new screwdriver and went on his way.

Within a few decades Santa realized he’d need those items. First of all, he just didn’t have the heart to give toys only to good kids, despite the protests of his Chief Naughty Judge, Toadstool Chocolatecake. Now out of a job, Toadstool moved south to England, where he fell upon hard times and took a servant job after changing back to his original name, Dobby.

Second, Santa could not predict the ability of the human race to … shall we say, expand. He originally served a population of a 250,000,000, which seems like a lot until you subtract adults and then divide by bad kids. The Viking kids almost never got presents, but up north they appreciated the coal.

So Santa used the devices, and as a result Forest – Forest Tinselstockins – had to use the anti-static brush every December 26^th. It not only helped static, it also removed tachyon particles that became attached to Santa’s wool clothing and beard during the trip. If not for that treatment, at random intervals Santa would find himself flung to a very hot planet circling the star 40 Eridani A, where absolutely no one believed in Santa and his jolly nature was seen as quite illogical. Getting back to Earth was a pain.

My point is that Christmas was a very stressful time for Santa Claus, even more stressful than for anyone else. At least Santa had a team led by the trusted Merry Toffeebaubles to get the lights untangled and strung up. (Merry’s real name is Mary; she considers herself lucky, especially since her last name used to be Weirenkawoski.)

So he had his Jack Daniels, his over the counter meds, his foot bath, and his combing. He’d relax with a couple of glasses of the good stuff while listening to gentle, soothing songs sung by Blueberry Embercane (previously known as Elvis). Planning for next Christmas started on December 27^th, so the relaxation time was very important.

Later he’d be checked over by Dr. Gingercane, who had a degree, maybe ironically, from The University of Hawaii. Santa always had various scratches, bruises, and the occasional burn, and dog bites weren’t out of the question. He hadn’t been seriously injured since Saddam Hussein tried to shoot him down in 1989, and that was just a little shrapnel.

“Merry Christmas, Santa!” said Evergreen Iciclepears after Santa had, shall we say, warmed up a bit. “Preliminary indications are that it went very well this year.”

“Well, I got back with all the reindeer,” Santa replied. “So yes – Merry Christmas, indeed. Is breakfast almost ready?”

“Oh, absolutely. Partridge Emberwine is cooking up all your favorites. So, do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”

Santa paused to think. “Well, back in 1914 I resolved not to give gifts to bad kids anymore, but I just couldn’t stick with it. In 1964 I resolved to lose weight, but the wife wouldn’t allow it. ‘The kids expect a fat Santa!’ she kept saying. Who could foresee this health craze? Now she wants me to get a Wii Fit.”

Leaning back, he sighed. “I guess I’ll just resolve to keep going … and maybe, someday, if they come to understand giving enough, more of the bad kids will become good kids.

“Now, let’s get to that breakfast – I’ve got my early massage scheduled.”

Changing Rhyme Schemes, or: The not so perfect Christmas poem

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

T ’was the week before Christmas,

and I have to admit:

I wasn’t feeling the spirit;

not one little bit.

The stockings weren’t hung,

I didn’t know where they were!

This weather’s not festive.

It just makes me say “brrr”.

The world’s done crazy,

bad guys in control

and the good guys are lazy,

so we’re left in a hole

that would make the Grinch happy

with his heart way too tiny.

He’d think that this world

would be his kind of shiny.

Now, I’m not a Scrooge,

so don’t be mistaken;

I’ve just been so busy

my spirit was taken.

There hadn’t been time

to put up a tree

and entertain the family

(when it falls on me).

To save electricity

we hadn’t strung lights

to bring us some comfort

on those long winter nights.

My wife, deep in finals

for her last month in school,

and me writing fiction

like a publishing fool.

It seemed the holidays

would miss her and me

and even the dog

(who had wanted a tree).

So one night I came in

cursing the cold

and the ice, and the snow,

and all things in that mold.

But as I reached the door

feeling achy and slow

the oddest thing happened:

I was pelted with snow.

And then, with a curse

that would make Chef Ramsey proud

a man fell off the roof,

and his heavy bulk ploughed

right into the bush

I’d forgotten to trim,

which was now for the best;

or he’d have broken limbs.

He wore a red coat,

now all grungy and stained.

Twigs filled his beard.

His expression, quite pained

showed that his night

hadn’t gone very well.

“No, it hasn’t,” he said,

“In fact, it’s been heck.”

(Hey, he’s Santa. Santa doesn’t cuss.)

“A fighter from China tried to shoot the sleigh down;

The NSA’s bugging my base on the ground.

Over Syria I tracked three SAM missiles, inbound,

and I lost my left boot to a mad basset hound.

“To half the kids, thinking of me makes them sneer,

Alec Baldwin demanded some imported beer.

A hungry hunter took down half my reindeer,

and some ACLU moron tried to ban me, this year.

“My elves lost their insurance to that government goof,

my sleigh fell apart; seems it’s not so rustproof.

My big toe got smashed by Blitzen’s big hoof,

and to top it all off – now I fell off your roof!”

I could see the man’s point;

Things weren’t going so hot.

The way things are going,

he might have been shot

flying over some big city

where people are armed,

and don’t have much pity

for who might be harmed.

And care must be taken

when entering a house

where he might be mistaken

for some burgling louse.

But after a moment he smiled at me.

“It’s not really as bad as I make it to be.

Things always come up that you just can’t foresee,

Like when I got too close to that big honkin’ tree

that you really should trim, don’t you agree?

I wrecked when I swerved; think I fractured my knee.

And the sleigh’s now a wreck – see all the debris?

Think I’ll trade the thing in for a brand new Grand Prix.”

“Are you insane?” I asked him, I thought quite nicely.

“Sorry if I’m seeming a little too feisty,

but you almost got killed, and your sleigh is broke down,

and I think I saw Rudolph on a light pole downtown.”

“Don’t worry about Rudolph,” he said, with a grin.

“He’ll just hang out, relax, and kick back some gin.

I shouldn’t let him drink and lead teams, I suppose –

but how do you think he lights up that red nose?”

“How is this not so bad?” I asked when he paused.

“My insurance won’t cover a wrecked Santa Claus.

And those deer are destroying my roof with their paws.

Don’t you think you were breaking some low flying laws?”

“Don’t fret about that,” He replied with that grin.

I never leave traces – now, where have you been?

Christmas magic will fix this, and also my shin.

so stop being moody – up with that chin!”

“It’s been a rough year,” I tried to explain.

With writing included, I’ve been working two jobs.

Our health has been iffy, and there’s been some pain,

And my wife’s college finals have given her probs.”

(lems. Problems. What do you want from me? I write prose.)

Shaking his head, St. Nick gave me a look.

“You had a bad year? Why, you published a book!

You have a great wife, and a home, and a dog,

and hundreds of followers reading your blog.”

(Well, dozens.)

“So you had a bad day! Suck it up now, and think

of the ways in which your life doesn’t stink.

Your family all loves you, and they’re not too bad.

No felons on death row, no deadbeat dad.

You’ve water to drink, and your cupboards are stocked,

and you haven’t been charged by the feds that you’ve mocked.

As for the rest, yes, we sometimes get sad,

but Christmas is more than having and had.

It’s about faith, and caring, and having some hope,

and doing for others, and learning to cope

with the cold, and the snow, and occasional dope.

So be of good cheer, and that kind of trope!”

It’s possible my heart grew three sizes that night.

Well, probably not, but I must say the sight

of St. Nick tooling off in his brand new Grand Prix

Gave me hope for us all … and especially me.

So my wish to you is more of the proof

that I picked up that night when he fell off my roof.

I hope that you see metaphorical dawn –

And don’t have a sleigh mess to clean off of your lawn.